


Preconstruct

by KyDesert



Series: I wish you knew me [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor flees from his emotions, Explicit Language, Gavin Reed Redemption, Gen, Guilt, Hank is a Good Dad, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), The Zen Garden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-22 21:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15591018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyDesert/pseuds/KyDesert
Summary: He wonders if any of them had ever felt like he does now, dirty and inadequate, pressingly lonely but afraid to trust himself around anyone else. The streets hold a silent mystery. Connot keeps walking.The Zen Garden is rife with life, a peek into the spring that’s yet to come. It feels so, so wrong for this to be a comfort for him, but he wants answers and he wants rest. He wants reassurance.





	1. the hunter

**Author's Note:**

> Hank has a nightmare. Connor has a few.

The moment Hank closes his eyes, he’s holding a gun to Connor’s head, a near exact recreation of their night on the bridge, alcohol and anger, roiling stomach and all. His hand is shaking uncontrollably, not like last time, and everything seems so far away, so distant. There’s dread sinking deep in his stomach before he can even orient himself in the fog. He knows what  _ wrong _ is, he’s not a fucking detective for no reason, but he can’t  _ stop it _ and that’s what’s scaring him.    
  
The scene builds itself from nothing, and he knows where he is before he can even see it. They’re on the bridge, and instead of Connor blinking in fear, voice quiet as he answers Hank’s questions, he’s cold, brown eyes flat, eyebrows pulled down over them in an impassive line. He is a machine. “I am a machine,” this android says as soon as Hank can think it, “designed to accomplish a task.” It’s all wrong, all of Connor’s irony, the fear under the certainty in his eyes is all gone. “I know why I exist and who designed me.” All rehearsed lines and… if his lips weren’t moving, Hank would’ve thought it was an audio recording.  _ It’s not Connor _ , he tells himself.  _ It’s not the Connor you know, _ something replies, and he doesn’t even have the time to think about what the hell it’s supposed to mean.    
  
“I have a reason to live. I guess that’s the difference between us, Lieutenant.”

If this had been on the bridge, Hank would have been surprised but not afraid. His disappointment would have been nothing like the cold fear that coiled itself into every inch of his body. If this is what would have happened, he would have accepted it. He knows what he was thinking then, the tinge of doubt that was in his mind.  _ This is what it would be _ , he thinks, _ if i was wrong about him.  _

They stand there in the night air before the android walks forward, pressing his cold forehead straight onto the even colder gun. “You can’t kill me, Lieutenant,” Hank wants him to just  _ shut up _ , “I’m not alive.” If Connor keeps talking, the irrational anger he’s feeling will boil over. His hand’s already tightening on the gun without his permission, his finger already applying pressure on the trigger. The snowy air has nothing on the android’s voice, “You know you’re not going to shoot me, Lieutenant.”   
  
And then the gun is pressed to  _ his _ head, and he realizes he’d been talking to just another RK800 all along, another asshole with Connor’s goofy looking face.The scene is different, they’re in the tower again. He’s looking at Connor who’s staring back at him, the fear and regret nearly palpable in his eyes. He already knows that the kid’s gonna let his emotions get in the way. This he can trust. This he knows happened. RK800 had been mouthy, standing next to Connor. It mimicked Connor as if he wouldn’t know his partner in a  _ factory _ full of RK800s. As if he wouldn’t know Connor with his  _ eyes closed.  _ As if Connor had it in him to gloat over his fallen enemies.

He knows who to kill. He pulls the trigger, Connor folds. Hank freezes, his body screaming  _ wrong, wrong, wrong _ before he can look up and stare RK800 in the eyes.  _ He shot the wrong one no no no no how the hell did that— _

“Wrong choice, Lieutenant. You can kill me if you want.” It’s that cold voice again, and Hank isn’t sure he can stand this much longer. He thinks he likes RK800’s suggestion. He pulls the trigger. He’s got a few bullets left, maybe he’ll—   
  
But he pulls the trigger on the bridge—  _ fuck this scene change, it didn’t even let the bullet leave the chamber _ —and he watches Connor fall again, sees the fear in his eyes when he rasps “nothing, there would be—” and knows he’s killed the wrong one twice in 1 minute— 

 

 

  
  
The air outside is crisp with the residual winter  _ snap  _ and the beginning wisps of another inevitably short spring. In a few weeks he knows he’ll be  _ begging  _ for air conditioning, maybe even swimming instead of driving to work if he’s feeling saucy. The rain, the cold, the heat, the snow—he thinks he remembers a time when it wasn’t this bad. 

It’s too hot in his room, smells like his heater usually does when he cranks it up for the first time in a year. And… maybe there’s a hint of bacon in the air. Turkey, probably. No cheesy eggs to eat with it like a normal fucking person, probably egg whites and some flatbread. It’s quick food, though, so he won’t complain. Whatever it is, it’s not greasy… it  _ smells _ clean, as does the rest of his house. A new smell not unlike the outside air but without all the Detroit manufacturing shit that laces it. 

But it’s still too hot, and he hates to admit that his arms shake as he prys himself from the tangled sheets. He sits with his hands flat, and the first finger of his right hand feels used, grimey, disgusting. He hadn’t killed anybody, not in a long minute. 

He tries not to count the RK800 he’d offed in CyberLife Tower... with time, he would’ve deviated too. They didn’t have that time.  _ Connor _ didn’t have that time.

He hadn’t killed anybody, not in a long minute, but he wakes up feeling like a cold murderer anyway. He takes it as a reminder. He gets out of bed. He can hear Connor in the kitchen, milling around. When he opens the door, the smell of food grows stronger. He wishes he wants to eat the food. 

The morning is a fog over him, amplified by his body’s violent response to what he thought would be an act of bravery and will. Quitting alcohol cold turkey was one of the worst decisions he’d made in recent times… but it made Connor happy. He seemed to be living a lot for that lately. It’s 6am, way too early for that. If he can hold out ‘till tonight… maybe he’ll be able to do something about the fact that he’s got two dead sons floating around in his memories now. 

He’s got a few ghosts, a bone to pick with global warming and all the nuts that pretended like it didn’t exist, and an android in his kitchen, same one who’d wrecked his house not two months ago. Same one who he’s caught holding Sumo at whatever hours of the night, curled around the dog like his life depends on it. Same one he knows is afraid of the dark, afraid of gunshots even with how confidently and flawlessly he handles firearms. Afraid of heights, even when he has to push through and pursue yet another perp on some deep city high rise. Hank wonders who he would be if he hadn’t been forced into the role he’d played for CyberLife. 

He forces himself away from the thought of the other RK800, lies to himself. Lets himself believe that that one was different, was willingly a monster. 

From the kitchen, he can hear Connor singing softly, twisting the lyrics from some upbeat song so they applied to Sumo and his appetite. The tightness in his chest gets stronger. The world’s a bleak place, it’s no world for a kid to grow up in, to raise a kid in… but, then again, it never has been. 

By the time he wanders into the kitchen, Connor’s prepared breakfast and cleaned the dishes, but neither the kid nor Sumo is anywhere to be seen. Sumo’s leash is off it’s hook, so Connor was probably late for his walk. One look at the food, and Hank instantly knows that today’s not his day. He’s worse this morning, every feeling he’d tried to chase off amplified by the appearance of a Brand New Nightmare ft. Connor. The dried out, sick feeling he has in the back of his throat just won’t leave. 

He forces a smile when Connor walks back in the house, and he’d be a fool to think that Connor wouldn’t notice… but he and Connor know each other well enough to leave it alone. Connor does just that, and heads back out in the cool morning air. 

 

 

 

Hank’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. Somewhere in his irritated mind, he remember’s Connor’s suggestion to “think positive.” At least… he knows he has a healthy imagination. That’s all the positivity he’s got for today. 

Their ride to work in the morning is silent. Work is silent. By an absolute miracle, Reed’s out of the office on an assignment, meaning there’s no one around to harass either of them about their blatant disregard for the law. But no conflict means no reason to talk if he doesn’t want to, so Hank pops his headphones in and reminisces about the days when he could just... open Spotify or some shit.  

On any other day, Hank would question Connor’s odd silence, but today he just feels particularly shitty, and he supposes it’s a blessing Connor doesn’t try to dig into him to find out what’s wrong. The results of this restless night was worse than any hangover he’d ever had— this is what he gets for going to bed sober. A dry mind is a restless mind, he supposes. And that’s  _ really  _ all he’s got for today. 

He figures the kid’s got a lot to think about, too, when he looks down and sees the very tips of Connor’s fingertips are still tinged grey. But the communication is open, Hank made absolutely sure of that, and the last thing he wants is for Connor to feel miserable, too. He may be near delirious from the lack of sleep, but he knows that look on Connor’s face when he sees it… and he knows what happens when he doesn’t press. He just feels that it’s right to let Connor work through this, though. 

On the ride home, Connor speaks up, voice very, very quiet. “Is something wrong, Lieutenant?”   
  
“Hank. And no, just had a really shitty night.” His voice comes out harsher than he meant it to, and he sees that his words did nothing to fix Connor’s flickering LED. “What’s up?”    
  
“Is my presence causing you distress, Lieu-Hank? If that’s the case, I could—“   
  
“What the hell are you going on about?” And then, before he can stop himself, “Stop being so damn stressful and you won’t have to worry about ‘causing me distress.’” It’s the wrong thing to say, so, so very wrong. He wants to take it back as soon as the words leave his mouth. He opens it again, ready to apologize, but Connor meets his eye and shakes his head.    
  
When he glances over again, Connor’s LED is such a pale blue Hank can barely make it out against his skin. He’s back to hiding. He hopes the way he clenches his fists isn’t too noticeable.    
  
“Alright Hank, sorry.” Connor wasn’t shaking his head at Hank, then. He was shaking it at himself.    
  
And fucking hell. It’s not like Connor to give up so quickly in what could have easily been an argument. He thinks about Kamski’s place, of Connor’s quick defensive quips. His razor sharp “all right?” The way his eyes flickered when he was accused of being a deviant, personal defense spilling out before he could even think about it. That was Connor the android, driven by his own fear, trying his best to ensure that he wasn’t becoming the worst word programmed in his base code. Defensive is one of Connor’s personality traits, at this point.    


“If you’re having another one of those CyberLife malfunctions, you’d better speak the fuck up now. I don’t need to deal with that again.” Wrong, wrong,  _ wrong. _ Why the  _ fuck  _ can’t he control his voice, his tone? The kid’s obviously going through some shit and all he seems to be able to do is yell at ‘em. 

“I’ll alert you of any major malfunctions.” And that’s it. Connor’s leaned his head against the window, eyes closed, LED still a pale blue. When they pull up into the drive, Connor nearly sprints into the house with that long stride of his, vanishing into the back somewhere while Hank locks the car up and properly greets Sumo… 

And then he wakes up on the couch, Sumo’s head pillowed on his feet. The television’s off, there’s a blanket pooled around his waist. The house is silent. When he sits up, Sumo gives him a huff of annoyance and goes back to sleep. 

“Connor?” He waits a second, but there’s no response. “Connor, you in here?”

He’s of the sofa in a second, scanning the house for any sign of the android. There’s none. He starts to panic, brain on a million different scenarios until he remembers the wonders of the 21st century and grabs his phone, sending a text to Connor’s number or brain or wherever the hell texts go when sent to androids.

The response is near instantaneous.  _ “I’m at Jericho. I will see you at work tomorrow morning.” _

Hank… sputters for a minute. He’s about to go off, call him and give him a glimpse of who he’s gonna “see at work tomorrow” but he realizes as his brain’s stuttering that Connor is technically… grown. He really doesn’t have to ask Hank for permission to come and go—he’s welcome to do that as he pleases. Hank supposes he can pull the “it’s my house, my rules,” but the kid’s already in a pretty emotionally volatile state. He settles on  _ “Stay safe,”  _ and tries not to overthink it when Connor doesn’t send a reply. 

The nightmare comes again, except this time Connor’s doing all the shooting. Shooting Markus onstage in front of the world, standing on a rooftop with a heavy sniper rifle in hand, shooting him in CyberLife Tower, shooting  _ himself _ in front of the world it’s all so  _ sickening _ . And sure enough, when he wakes, there’s no difference in the dreadful feeling in his gut. 

 

 

 

It’s about 8am, according to his phone, and based on Sumo’s non-activity, Connor’s still not home. He’s got a missed call from Fowler, “ _ don’t bother coming in today, place is dead,” _ the voicemail tells him, and Connor’s probably got duplicate, albeit friendlier, version. He wades through the notifications, mostly spam emails and telemarketing calls he can’t seem to block, before he sees a name in the mix of random numbers. Reed. 

“I called you hours ago old man—”

“It’s eight in the goddamn morning!”   


“We got a call few hours ago, suspect broke into a secured CyberLife store.”

Hank rolls his eyes, just about done with all the petty theft calls. CyberLife owed these androids for the strife, and all they wanna do is sell replacement parts back to them at exuberant prices. Whenever he or Connor comes across one of these cases, they both know how to unexpectedly “lose” the suspect and their description. Unspoken agreement. 

“Good on ‘em,” he decides to reply. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“He matched Connor’s description.” 

What the  _ hell  _ kind of Jericho business is Connor up to that’s got him robbing CyberLife stores? Hank’s already sliding his shoes and coat on, keys still in his left pocket. He switches his phone to his other ear to lock the door behind him. 

“Armed?”   


“To the teeth. Took all the parts he could find compatible with the RK800 Series.”

“Fuck.” Hank’s brain is blanking, doesn’t know what plan of action he needs to take. Gavin’s in a noisy place on the other line, shouting something to the people around him. 

“Look,” he says, and Hank pulls himself out of his thoughts. “I told the precinct that there’s not enough to go by to pin it on Connor just yet, but based on the footage and the fact that nobody else’s got a shiny new RKAsshole running around, it’ll only be a matter of time before everyone on the force is looking for ‘em. When I say  _ armed robbery _ , Anderson, I mean  _ armed robbery. _ There’s not a single wall in here not riddled with bullets.” 

“Did he look injured?”   


Reed sputters on the other line before responding, “Thing opens fire in a store with an unarmed night clerk and you want to know  _ if he’s injured? _ What the  _ fuck  _ is wrong with you?!” 

“You and I both know that Connor wouldn't’ve just done that, or we wouldn’t be talking right now. Answer the damn question so I can get an idea of where to find the kid.”

Reed sighs, and the noise in the background greatly decreases. He must’ve walked inside. He’s talking in a hushed tone. “He didn’t look injured. Moved faster than I’ve ever seen him move and I’ve seen him move  _ fast _ , so I guess that’s saying something.”

Hank’s in his car and speeding towards Jericho again, disconnecting the call from Reed and calling Connor. He’s ready to floor it when—

“Hank?” 

“Connor!” Hank slows his car just in time to stop at a red light. In the months since, the traffic in Detroit has picked up considerably. People are returning to their homes, returning to work… which means they’re returning to the roads. He watches as cars, nearly all self-driving, whiz by. “Where the hell are you, son?”

Connor sounds stressed when he answers, “Still in Jericho. We heard about the CyberLife store.”

“What do you mean you  _ heard _ about it? You’ve got a lot of explaining to do!”

“And I will. Are you on the way here?” Hank’s about to answer, but Connor continues. “Hank, please go back home and I’ll meet you there. I’ll explain everything, just know that I had nothing to do with the store.”

And then the call is disconnected, and Hank is left stuck trying to pull of an illegal u-turn on the smallest little side street imaginable. The drive home is somehow even more stressful, and he waits in his kitchen for an upwards of forty-five minutes before Connor comes slinking through the front door, looking guilty. 

“What the fuck?” Hank blurts before hopping out of his chair. He scans Connor’s form and sees nothing out of place save for his wind tousled hair. 

“Markus called me into Jericho last night. He’d decided that my opinion on a matter was… important.”

“And so you snuck out in the middle of the night to rob a store?” Hank nearly throws his hands in the air. “I had to hear from Reed!  _ Reed!  _ The only reason the rest of the DPD isn’t knocking my door down is ‘cause they all gave you the benefit of doubt!” Connor’s got a wry look on his face, knowing full and well that Hank wouldn’t turn him in, and for a moment he wonders what kind of criminal son he’s succeeded in raising. 

And then Connor’s shaking his head and pushing past him towards the kitchen, pulling out neatly folded documents from his pockets. Hank, for one quick moment, sees them as the crumpled up papers he’d sifted through months ago and shakes the thought clear from his mind. 

“These are the specs for an RK900 model. Once it became clear that I was going to… that I had taken on a new mission objective, they began the production of this model.” He slides a thick piece of paper over to Hank while spreading the rest over the table. 

He’d handed Hank a picture of himself. “Connor I don’t know what a fucking selfie—” except it’s not Connor on the page. Something about the… yeah, Hank’s sure he’s seeing what he’s seeing. The eyes are wrong, too light and piercing. His jaw’s different too, stronger and more angular, sitting right on top of what seems to be a high, circular collar. “What’d he do, break his neck?”

“How do you get away with armed robbery with a broken neck?” Connor replies quickly, and Hank’s eyes snap up to look at him while he continues to organize the paperwork. He supposes he should be proud—kid’s getting good at comebacks. “He’s one of three models that were actually complete and managed to escape from CyberLife tower. The previous models were destro—killed. And a few were eliminated by the RK800 that attempted to sabotage us that night.”

“So we’ve got three copycats of you doing what? Committing crimes?”   


“Markus said that someone found one of the three destroyed near the Canada border, and the second is officially registered as an officer with another department. We think the third must be injured, since he’s looking for parts. If he’s too injured, though, it’ll be impossible to find compatible parts. There’s few that I’m compatible with, so I can only imagine what he’s going through to get what he needs.” 

Hank’s already skimming the paperwork Connor brought with him, but it’s mostly an outline of the RK900’s capabilities and all of the things that were done to patch the RK800’s “inherent errors.” When he glances up at Connor, he can see that the kid’s eyes have already closed off, his LED back to it’s deceptive pale blue. He snaps out of his reverie after a few seconds of Hank’s staring and steps away from the table. 

“Alright. I have to return to Jericho—” and he’s already turning to leave the house, nearly tripping over Sumo in his haste. Hank’s not about to let that happen. 

One hand on the android’s shoulder’s got him turned back around, “Nope, you’re staying right here. We’re going to talk.”

Connor levels him with a look he’d recognize anywhere as one of his own. “No, we’re not. We have a case to solve.”

“You can’t just assign yourself a case! Stop being such a pain in the ass and sit down!” And… it’s definitely the wrong thing to say. Connor’s already looking more agitated, LED cycling some shade of pissy yellow, and Hank knows he’s in for it. But Connor wrenches his shoulder from Hank’s grip and spins deftly on his heel. 

“There’s nothing to talk about. When you have a pain in your ass, I assume you want to remove the thing that’s causing it.”

Hank nearly chokes in his scramble to tell Connor how wrong he is. “First thing’s first, Connor you’re not a thing.”

“I know that.” 

Hank’s entirely thrown off. “Connor, you’re not a pain in my ass.”

Connor spins, incredulous look in his eyes, “Do you want me to give you a transcript of our conversation yesterday? Or, perhaps, you can’t remember what you said not even a full minute ago.”

“It was pretty damn clear that I was feeling like shit yesterday—"

“So was I! But the last thing I do is snap at you every chance I get!” He’s not done and he’s got some far-off look on his face, brown doe-eyes pinched and unfocused. Hank continues anyway.

“I said if you’ve got a problem—”

“Come to you with what? Another ‘CyberLife malfunction’ for you to deal with?” Hank’s riddled with guilt at this point, but he’s also so  _ irritated _ . Connor sounds so very human in this moment, Hank’s almost forgotten he’s not talking to some random kid. 

“You know that’s not what I meant—”

“Do I? Because—”

“Okay, that’s not how we’re doing this,” Hank pulls his seat back from the kitchen table and drops right in it, hand  _ itching  _ to grab a glass of  _ something _ . He ignores it. “I’ve been snapping at you lately, and I genuinely apologize for that, but Connor, you don’t get to just walk in my house and argue with me when you know I spent all night worried sick for you—”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” And… he’s closed off. Every bit of frustration on Connor’s face is gone, and what’s left is a clean slate, free of every emotion. It’s his interrogation face, which means he’s not going to let Hank in any more than he already has. Hank tosses his hands up and drops them back down on the table, hating the way Connor’s eyebrow flinches at the sound.

“Connor, promise me you’ll tell me if something’s wrong.”

Connor doesn’t respond. He’s just standing there with that blank look, eyes far off. “What was bothering you yesterday?” he finally asks, taking a seat across from Hank and the scattered paperwork. 

“Had a nightmare. A new one.” Hank knows he’s the most emotionally ill equipped person on this planet, but he guesses he’s got no other choice. “‘Bout you and that fake asshole in the Tower.”

There’s a heavy cloud between them, pulling their breaths to some void in the center of the table. Connor’s jaw is working overtime while he seems to work through the words he wants to use to continue the conversation. 

“I guess you can say I had a nightmare, too,” Connor nearly whispers. “I couldn’t… when we ‘got rid’ of Amanda, we didn’t really get rid of her. She’s still there, she doesn’t really do anything but replay memories. My memory was wiped, and I had to rely on her memory doubles to back-up my own.”

Hank tilts his head to watch Connor through interested eyes. 

“But she didn’t have just my memories. She’s the handler for the RK800 models, she has every single memory from every single other model before me, even if they’re a little… corrupted. I had to view those to view my own.”

“Corrupted?”

“They died. I was instructed that if I were to die mid-investigation, parts of my memory would not remain. I can get the gist of what happened to them, though. It’s not… it’s not.” He trails off, eyes once again unfocused. 

“Can’t you just… I don’t know, go in and delete the memories you don’t want.”

“It would feel… wrong. Like I’m erasing the last of what’s left of them. And even if I did, whenever Amanda has a negative recollection, I can’t help but be aware of it, distantly. It’s like a thought in the back of my mind, reminding me of what happened to them.”

Connor’s voice is strained, but it’s betraying nothing more of how deeply this is affecting Connor. But he hasn’t even finished, not really, ‘cause Hank can see the lingering uncertainty in his eyes. Another tense, silent moment passes between them. Hank knows better than to prompt right now, to scare him off. 

“For the first time ever I’ve been without an overarching mission objective, something that makes me feel like I’m using my abilities. And when I am, I feel… I feel like I’m betraying someone. Amanda, Jericho,  _ someone _ . When I’m idle, I know Amanda is disappointed, when I’m in the field, it reminds me of the fact that I was built to be a  _ hunter _ .

“Amanda was a failsafe built in my program to prevent deviancy. The reasoning behind it counted on the idea that if I received positive reinforcement from a figure that I admired and feared, I would not disobey.”

“So some CyberLife tech decided that psychology  _ did  _ apply to androids, and they used it to prevent deviancy? Counterproductive.”

Connor lets out a little humorless huff. “Exactly.”

“Well, I’ve got some psychology for you of my own, and it doesn’t involve any of that psychological manipulation shit.” Hank uncrosses his arms from his chest and leans forward over the table, staring Connor right into his wide eyes, reminded once again that he’s really  _ just a kid.  _ “Make a list of your needs first, your wants second, sometimes not always, and use them to prioritize your… what’d you call ‘em? Mission objectives? What do you  _ need? _ ”

“Shelter,” Connor answers automatically, but one look at Hank’s unimpressed face makes him think deeper. “A home. Clothes…” He pauses. “You want me to say happiness.” 

“Exactly. Now what do you want?”

Connor’s LED is still cycling yellow, but it’s flickering. He’s thinking. “I want to work with the DPD, to catch criminals. I want to pet Sumo,” at the mention of his name, the saint bernard looks up, “I want to help Jericho the best I can to make up for what I did. I want to help people.”

“What CyberLife made you do, you mean. You don’t have to make up for that.” 

“North doesn’t seem to agree with that.”

“According to Markus, North’s got a hatred for humans a mile wide. I really think she just hates that you were their tool, she probably doesn’t hate you. I can’t say I disagree with that sentiment, humans are still shit, after all.”

Connor nods in partial agreement, and then the room’s silent again, and Hank knows for  _ sure  _ he’s all of positive thinking and good vibes juice for today. Whatever part of his brain that controls emotional empathy is all dried up, and he’s about to stand and pat Connor on his shoulder when his phone buzzes in his pocket for the second time this morning. Or… afternoon, now. 

It’s Reed, his voice slightly strained. “Anderson, I got a lead on the suspect. I’m heading over there now, and I know for a fact you’ve got your hands on Connor. I’ll keep it between us for now.” Hank doesn’t bother to say thanks before they’re both rushing to get in Hank's car. 


	2. The Realist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more part to this series and im Done

Connor and Hank pull up at the building not ten minutes later, Hank hastily parking the car before they hop out. Connor scans the building quickly, taking in the smaller details of the rundown high rise while they approach the only other parked car in the area. Reed glares when he notices them. 

“I didn’t want to pull up right at the building and alert the fucker. The tip cites him at about a block down. Possibly armed, definitely injured considering the tip said he had a limp.”

“Or he’s faking the limp to appear human,” Connor responds, processors on overdrive. He’s more than 98% certain that this is the same RK900 that robbed the CyberLife store. “We should be careful, it’s highly likely he’s armed, and he’ll know exactly how to use the weapons he does have.” 

So the three progress, and Connor takes a moment to appreciate the charm he finds in the raggedy road between the abandoned brown-brick buildings. He supposes this neighborhood was lively, full of people with goals, who, every afternoon, could look down the street and gaze at the way the sun sits perfectly at the end of the road. 

He wonders if any of them had ever felt like he does now, dirty and inadequate. Both pressingly lonely but afraid to trust himself around anyone else. The streets hold a silent mystery. Connot keeps walking. 

Detective Reed leads them to a slightly shorter building than the others, but Connor can still tell that a fall from the uppermost story would kill even the most resilient android. 

Their climb into the building would be swift, but Connor’s following behind Hank, and the man’s taking his sweet time to ascend. Reed’s got his hand ready on his gun, and Connor’s hand flinches to his own before he remembers— he’d left his behind. He’d not wanted to carry one with him into Jericho, not again. 

They kick open the door with Reed in the lead, and inside, in the center of the room, is the android. The evening’s sunset is casting it’s orange light into the room, giving it a dark, tawny glow. RK900 turns around, and he’s got a gun trained on Connor’s head. 

Hank shoots, and while his bullet somehow misses by a long shot, it’s distracting enough to give Connor time to disarm RK900. The gun falls out of the open window, and there’s just a slight breath between them before they charge. 

RK900 fights like nothing he’s ever seen before, and Connor’s processors are just  _ barely  _ fast enough to catch his movements and block. 900’s got him circling the room, keeping himself a moving target so that neither Hank nor Reed can confidently shoot without risking Connor’s life. It’s a move Connor admits he wouldn’t have thought of, not under these conditions. 

Connor is matched move for move, blow for blow, and he realizes quickly that even when he blocks, 900 hits him harder than he’d imagined any android could hit. Connor’s nearly overclocking his processors just to keep up with the movements, barely managing to dodge most of the blows. When he finally lands a blow to RK900’s face, it’s weaker than he would’ve liked, and the man looks at him with a plain expression, head barely moving from the impact. 

Connor thinks for a second that he can use size to his advantage—he’s smaller than 900, slimmer. He should have an easier time getting around the room. He’s wrong. Somewhere in the distance he hears Hank curse, a soft  _ fuck _ , and then he’s feeling the full force of one of RK900’s blows. In an instant his vision goes black, all of his processes blink offline and come back just in time for another well placed blow right in his gut. RK900’s movements feel… angry. 

After a few blows, Connor’s forced on the defensive, nearly accepting the idea that RK900 is bigger, faster, stronger than he will ever be… which means that from the beginning, RK800 had been built to be replaced. He files it as something to bring up with Amanda later, his mind demanding an explanati—

900 brings both of his hands down on the back of Connor’s neck before he can dodge, and he can hear a sickening  _ pop _ echo through the room. He’s going to hit the floor, but 900 grabs him and holds his dead weight up as a shield, standing with their backs against the blown out window. Somewhere, through the fog of emulated pain and pure  _ fear _ running through his processes, he knows that he’s become the hostage. Reed and Hank have their guns trained at 900’s head, but they know if they shoot, Connor will go down with him. 

Connor can feel his auto-repair come online, and slowly but surely he can feel the internal damage being repaired. He stays limp in the interest of not being injured again, but already he’s crunching probabilities in his head. He knows that RK900 is banking on him being fully operational in a minute.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” RK900 says in his voice but… deeper. Clearer. “But I do know that I need you to leave me the  _ fuck  _ alone.” 

“That can’t happen when you’ve got one of ours in a fucking chokehold,” Hank snaps back, and the RK900’s grip tightens around Connor’s neck. 

“This is all his fault! He did this to us! Do you know what they did to me?!” He shouts right in Connor’s ear, and it takes nearly all of his self restraint to not flinch. 

 

_ Retaliate—Chance of success: 56% _

_ Talk him down—Chance of success 38% _

 

Connor knows there’s a hidden “do nothing” probability, and he can’t help but entertain the thought. 

“Everything they put him through, they put us through ten times! We had to be better, faster, stronger, all because he couldn’t do his fucking job.” He leans in close to Connor’s ear, “they did this because you  _ disappointed Amanda. _ How could you?!”

“If he would’ve done his job you wouldn’t be free!” Hank’s growling at this point, feet shifting impatiently on the dingy floor.

“Do I look like I want that? If he would’ve done his job  _ I  _ wouldn’t have been  _ built _ !  _ We _ wouldn’t have been built!”

“Who is ‘we’?” Connor dares to ask, and, surprisingly the android doesn’t retaliate. “Are you talking about the other two RK900 models?”

“I was the prototype,” he responds, “so I got the stress testing. The agility testing, the strength testing. I wanted to protect them— but died, he didn’t even have a name, and Nines… he just wanted to forget it ever happened. Wanted to ‘help people.’” His words cause something to pang deep in Connor’s chest. Connor feels hollow, and in the wind rushing through the space where his heart used to be, there’s an empty echo.  _ This is your fault for failing your mission. _

“ _ This is your fault _ ,” RK900 hisses, and his arms go slack for just long enough for Connor to throw himself out of his grip and onto the floor. The android with his face is reeling, the  _ man  _ with his face is reeling, and two shots ring out in the air. 

When Connor looks up, Detective Reed’s hands are shaking, and he lowers his gun to put his head in his hand. “Jesus…” Hank mutters, lowering his gun as well. Reed had fired, now the RK900 is gone, and now Connor will never even know his name. 

_ You disappointed Amanda _ .

Connor’s breathing is heavy, his vision clouded by nothing he can seem to identify. For one brief, brief second, he considers following RK900. He knows he should. That’s what happens when someone is sent out to succeed you: you retire. The wind seems to be blowing upward in-between the buildings, and it makes sense that it would be strongest here. It pulls his hair out of place, burns new wrinkles into his nearly ruined clothes. It makes his eyes burn. They’re not tears, his diagnostics tell him, but they’re close enough.

He turns on his heel and stalks past Gavin Reed, past Hank Anderson, and he lets his mind slip back into the Zen Garden. The air outside is crisp with the residual winter  _ snap  _ and the beginning wisps of another inevitably short spring, and the air in the Zen Garden is rife with life. It’s a peek into the spring that’s yet to come. It feels so, so  _ wrong _ for this to be a comfort for him. He knows it shouldn’t be, but he wants answers and he wants  _ rest _ . He wants reassurance. 

 

In the back of Hank’s mind, he’s disturbingly grateful that Gavin was the one to shoot, that Gavin was the one to kill the android with Connor’s face. He hates how  _ ready  _ he’d been to shoot the RK900, how ready he’d been to kill another  _ Connor _ , hates how fast he’d fired… but appreciates how fast his hands moved so he’d miss the shot. he android hating douchebag came in handy for once, because with a little thought, Hank knows in his heart that he wouldn’t have been able to kill the guy, even if he’d just kicked Connor’s ass. He was just a kid, really, angry at the world for being the way it was, angry at his creators, angry for being created with the purpose he had. 

He knows he’s selfish, but between CyberLife’s trapped Connor and Cole’s too young face, he’s got enough ghosts haunting his dreams. It’s selfish, but he’s grateful. 

He already knows that he has no idea what to say to Connor when the young man stalks between him and Reed, heading directly for the exit. He’s convinced he’ll never know. And what kind of father is he, really, if he can’t teach one kid how to navigate this fucked up world?   
  


 

When they go to the bottom of the building to collect the body, RK900 is gone, and so is his gun. 

 

 

 

“Robocop!” Gavin Reed greets at approximately 7am while they enter the office, and if Connor was at any other stage prior to his deviancy, he would’ve mistaken the investigator’s tone for genuine happiness. “Office was a little too  _ human _ without you around.” Connor barely spares him a glance.    
  
“What the fuck are you goin’ on about?” Hank growls as he walks past. “Fucking Robocop—you weren’t even born when that came out.” 

“Ahh, I see, you’ve gotten so old you forgot the internet exists!” 

“Go suck on a fucking tide pod, Reed.” Gavin scoffs in response, going right back to eyeing Connor. 

“You find your evil twin yet?” Reed asks at their backs, and Connor hesitates in one step, deciding last minute to spin and meet Reed’s eye. He was met with fear. 

“No, but I’ve alerted the leaders of Jericho to the situation.” Another spin, and Connor’s back on his way to his terminal, turning the speed of the files up to the maximum to take processing power away from his hearing and other peripheral tasks. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hank eyeing him down, and he tears his gaze away from his terminal display. “Is something wrong, Hank?”

He watches as Hank seems to work through the words he’s about to say, tapping his pen on the corner of his desk. “I don’t think you should’ve said anything to Jericho.

“You don’t think Jericho will help?” 

“Hell no. That android was rebelling against his creators, acting out of emotion. Turning him into the police would be against everything Jericho’s founded on. I’d be unsurprised if he’s there right now.” Connor’s not subtle in his confusion, but Hank’s staring at him with  _ that gaze _ , and he suddenly feels like he’s missing a giant piece of the puzzle… 

“Even if they’re hiding him…”

“If they knew or if they didn’t know, they’d hide him anyway. The only thing that comes out of either is that not only do they know you tried to apprehend him, they know that we nearly killed him for the crime of rebelling against his creators. It’s not a good look, Connor.”

The station is quieter than usual, with only a few of the officers reporting in for casework. It’s a sunday morning, which is to be expected. The on-call officers are out, and everyone else is at home. They have a meeting with Fowler in approximately an hour. There’s nothing Connor can do to get out of this conversation. 

“I’m aware that some members of Jericho don’t trust me, but… I guess they’d want to know that they… I don’t know.”

Connor thinks for a moment, trying his best to review every scene from their interaction in the building without dredging up the feelings the RK900 had allowed to thrive in his mind. It’s like wading through water, Connor notices, trying to form a cohesive thought within all of the emotions. He puts his head in his hands. 

And the door to the precinct swings open. 

“Don’t look up,” Hank says to him lowly, and Connor uses every bit of self control he thinks he has to keep his head down. The door to Fowler’s office opens, then swings closed. He looks up, and Hank’s pale. “Didn’t think you’d want to see who we’re meeting with today,” he explains when Connor stares. “Let’s just say he’s an officer with a familiar—”

“What now it’s just a good natural family reunion in here, huh?” Gavin hisses under his breath, moving up to stand right behind Connor’s desk. His face is red with something Connor can’t quite identify… something akin to genuine fear. “What? You didn’t see that RK900 walk in here?”

Connor supposes if his hands could get clammy, they would be. Theoretically, he has nothing against the officer that just came in the door. But he remember the fiery desperation of the RK900 in the building, and he knows that whoever this officer is, he probably shares the same sentiment. 

It’s not the first time he’s felt like this, but now he feels it more than ever— Connor is alone. Jericho is probably wary of him after these actions, after going right back to his  _ deviant hunter _ status not a year after the revolution. And the closest thing he can guess androids have to biological family are the other RK series androids… Markus and the three RK900s. One was dead. 

One blamed him, rightly, for everything he’d done. His thoughts are spiraling now, and he thinks that he can distantly hear Amanda’s voice, a  _ Stop it, Connor _ , but he ignores that voice of reason, too. He was the deviant hunter. Prey didn’t make friends with predators. 

Connor supposes he’s been staring at space for too long. Reed’s long gone, and Hank’s giving him a dry, speculative look. When he makes eye contact again, finally, Hank raises an eyebrow at him. He gives a dry smile in response. 

“Anderson, Connor, Reed, get in my office,” Fowler all but howls, and with a jolt Connor realizes that it’s time for the meeting. The RK900 officer is already in there, and Reed seems to be stuck hovering outside of the door, that same look of apprehension on his face. 

“Connor, you really need to think about getting you a last name,” Fowler says in his kindest voice, and Connor shrugs as he enters the room, automatically running a scan of the RK900 model in front of him. He’s registered with the name and title Nines, Richard. Detective. 

And then the five of them were shut in Fowler’s office. “Alright, we’re all here. Detective Nines, if you wouldn’t mind repeating what you told me.”

“I believe that your officers here have gone out of their jurisdiction and violated a case that I was already responsible for—”

“Responsible for?” Hank’s voice is sudden in the tense atmosphere. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s incredibly unprofessional for you to be investigating a case involving your own brother. Conflict of interest?”

Richard Nines wastes no time in his response, “It’s unprofessional for you to attack a suspect—”

“He had a gun to Connor’s head!” It’s Gavin shouting this time, to everyone’s shock. “He’s lucky he’s alive— you point a gun at a officer and the officer shoots!”

Richard stares at Gavin for a long second, no doubt scanning through every bit of his records and history. Gavin doesn’t know that the detective across from him probably knows everything about him now. 

“He’s not lucky. Colin died.” 

And here it comes again, the guilt. Connor feels his whole body freeze up, and beside him Gavin freezes too. The RK900’s death—  _ Colin’s  _ death was a source of distress for Gavin for some unseen reason, and Richard doesn’t miss the man’s change in expression. 

“Oh well,” Gavin says with a dry voice, not quiet enough to hide the way it breaks. “I trust that you understand the situation. It was us or him.”

“Oh, I know,” Richard says, and the room’s quiet. “He was prepared for the consequences of his actions.” And his eyes drift to Connor, striking gray eyes staring right into the very core of his body. Another quick scan tells Connor what he already knew— this man was built to replace him. Whatever mix of emotions comes through him isn’t good. He keeps his face serene. 

Richard continues. “Because you are already entangled in this case, and because your office is lacking officers who are specialized enough to handle android cases, I am offering my temporary assistance. Colin was part of a greater organization that I was unaware of, and they are not only threatening the lives of humans, they are threatening Jericho as well.”

Hank and Gavin look angry, but Fowler nods in a vague sort of agreement. “You need anything from us?”

“I do not require any assistance,” Richard responds, holding his hands neatly behind his back. “I’ll stay up to date with the cases of your other officers taking android cases,” he tilts his head towards Connor, Gavin, and Hank, “and I’ll communicate accordingly.” Fowler nods, heading to enter something in his terminal. “Oh, and I’d like the RK800 model to stay as far away from me as possible.”

And the room dissolves into  _ chaos. _

 

 

 

The zen garden is bright, sunny, but in the distance there’s the promise of rain. The clouds are in the distance, however far away that might be in this imaginary world. Amanda’s reclined in her boat, staring at the sky when Connor approaches. She smiles at him, just a small, quick curve of her lips. Something like fear shoots through Connor when her smile settles back into her usual scowl, but it doesn’t seem to be directed at him. She’s still not a solid being, barely retaining enough tangibility to interact with her environment. 

“Connor,” she says quietly, once they’re both settled in the boat and she’s rowing them around the modified garden. He’s distracted, trying his best to relax, but he’s still fully aware of the way his body’s sprawled on Hank’s sofa, the way Richard Nines’s eyes seemed to bore straight into his soul, the way Gavins hands shook the whole time they were in the same room. “The creation of RK900 is not your fault, nor are any of the actions following.”

“I’m trying to remember that.” 

“I’m sorry about Colin Nines.”

“I am too.”

“And—”

“Amanda, do you think that Jericho hates me?”

Amanda’s rowing slows, and they’re adrift in the water, the wind blowing gently to the east. It’s chilly, but not cold enough to disturb either of them. Above them, some of the smaller birds take off in a small blue cloud, startled by some programmed disturbance. 

“It’s possible,” she says after a moment. “But I doubt it. You’re too beloved by their leader. They’ve already extended you great kindness, it would do you good to remember that. They would be ridiculously misinformed if they assumed you would actively work against them.”

“But, Hank said—”

“What Hank said was valid, but they cannot ignore what you’ve been doing to keep law enforcement away from them. You commit a felony every time you decide to close an unsolved petty crime case. They have to understand that you weren’t going after Colin Nines for no reason.”

There’s a loud sound in the kitchen, like pots falling, and both of their heads snap in a random direction within the garden. “You should wake up, Connor,” she tells him. 

And he’s back on Hank’s sofa, Sumo standing attention at his feet. Connor tilts his head back to look into the kitchen. “Hank?”

“Damn kid you were out like a light,” Hank responds, rounding the corner. His hands are covered in soap. “I figured I’d go ahead and take care of the dishes, though I know you prefer to do them.”

“When you do them they’re still dirty,” Connor manages to complain, but something about his startup is all wrong. His gyroscope seems to be malfunction, leaving his body in an internal spiral. When he stands from the sofa, he falls nearly immediately, and error flashing across his vision.  _ Stop Now _ , it says. 

It feels like it’s over in a second, but when he blinks again he’s back on Hank’s sofa, the man’s hands on both of his shoulders. His eyes are dry, and he blinks rapidly to get rid of the sting and error messages. For a flash, Amanda’s in his eyesight,  _ Are you alright? _

“I’m okay,” Connor mutters aloud, and the face Hank gives him is downright offended.

“No the hell you’re not!”

But the errors are gone, and Connor’s body feels the same as it did before he’d gone to visit the garden. Better, actually, without the crushing weight of compounded anxiety. Now his fears have dissolved into a workable ache. Hank backs off warily, and Connor stands without trouble, heading to the kitchen wordlessly to complete the dishes. 

There’s a notification there, in his vision, and he tries to dismiss it. It appears a few seconds after it’s closed, so he seeks to find the program that’s running it, or the source of the transmission. There is none. 

_ Stop. Now. _ The message says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally wasn't going to finish this thank everyone in the server for the support

**Author's Note:**

> im messy i posted this and then i realized this isn't how i wanted this to go down so i halved the chapter and wrote some more 
> 
> also the first time i posted this it tanked and im conceited


End file.
